


Old Souls

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (but not Endverse), Emotional Baggage, Future Castiel, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Missing Sam Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s08e17 Goodbye Stranger, Safe for Booky, Sam in Flagstaff, Worried Dean, Young Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:12:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean meets a man when Sam runs away to Flagstaff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Souls

“Have you seen my brother?” Dean held up the photograph, trying his best not to crinkle it even further. A gap-toothed Sam smiled from the plain blue background, with the large word SAMPLE stamped across it. They couldn’t afford to buy any of the school packages—why couldn’t they sell at least two, instead of ten portraits and fifty flimsy wallet sizes? But it was the most recent picture Dean could find.

The man behind the counter shook his head. “Sorry, son, I haven’t. I’ll keep an eye out for you. Do you have a poster or something?”

Dean bowed his head, mentally cursing. He should have thought of that. “No,” he said, disappointed. “I don’t.”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Almost two weeks.” Dean sighed, carefully putting the picture back into his back jeans pocket.

“Did you call the police? File a report?”

“Yes.” Dad hadn’t wanted to—they were supposed to be off the radar—but in the end, after a full day of fruitless driving around neighboring towns, Dad had given in. They had to fake some of the information, but it was as accurate as they could make it. Dean still remembered the woman’s disapproving look—not at him, but at Dad: “You left them alone?”

“Dean’s job was to look after him,” Dad had snapped, and the woman tracked how Dean flinched like a dog about to be struck.

“Sir,” she said patiently, “even so, this is against the law. Your older son is a minor, and—has he been in school? Don’t you have any family or friends that could—“

“No,” Dad had shortly said, turning his back on her. Dean had hung back for as long as he dared to ask if they would find Sam, and the woman gave him a soft-eyed, pitying look. With curling blonde hair and near green eyes, she almost looked like Mom, and Dean had to swallow a catch in his throat. If _only Mom_ had made it out, then they wouldn’t be—

“Son? Son, are you okay? Do you need anything else?”

Dean snapped from his thoughts, shaking his head and trying to ignore the flush in his cheeks that made his freckles pop out from his skin. He hated that, and Dad didn’t exactly like it, either. _You have to be careful, Dean. You resemble…Mary quite a bit. Do you understand what I’m saying?_ Dean did, and ever since that conversation, he was more aware of his looks quite a bit more. Of course, there were the girls who glanced at him from their desks and gathered in packs, giggling and smiling at him in the halls, but Dean also caught hisses of _pretty boy_ and _twink_ from the football players or the guys in the bars he and Dad ventured in to hustle pool. And it didn’t matter how strong his arms were or how tough his gaze was—they just seemed to focus in on him. The whole thing made Dean shudder.

The guy eyed him again, and wished him luck, and Dean walked out of the store, bell on the door merrily clinging. It was a long walk back home—Dad had taken the Impala for another search, and Dean was left behind to ask the locals. He knew the way back, but didn’t want to go home just yet.

Leaning up against the front of the store, Dean closed his eyes and tried to focus on the heat of the sun beating down on his face. Sam had said that he needed to stay behind at school to finish a project, and Dean had thought nothing of it, until dinner hour had passed and there was no sign of him. He’d called the school, but no one had seen him since class that day. It had killed him, but Dean made himself wait until the next morning to shake down the teachers, students, even the janitors—yet no one knew where he was. Dean tried his best on his own, confident that he could find his brother before his father came home—Dad never called to check in, thank God, but the jig was up once Dad walked through the door. He had been so _angry_ , and—

“Kid. Kid. You have to get a move on. Sorry, but no loitering.”

Dean looked up at the same guy, who looked down at him the same way the woman did long ago. “Do you need a ride, or a phone call?”

“No,” Dean said. “No, I’ll be out of your hair.”

“It’s pretty hot today. Do you want some water, or—“

Dean shook his head. “It’s not a far walk home. Thank you, though.”

He had lied. In the cool morning, Dean had easily plowed down the road, heart pumping furiously, but now, in the sweltering heat of the afternoon, he shuffled, dragging his gait. Toe to heel. Toe to heel. _Sam, Sam, Sam._

He hadn’t yet finished the mile when his foot caught on some rubble in the road. Dean slid a good few feet before falling face-first into the dust. For a long moment, he didn’t want to get up, face his father, face his failure. _I have to keep looking,_ he thought, _I have to keep looking,_ but the mantra petered in and out with a single doubt: _what if? What Sam is—_

Suddenly, he noticed that a hand was outstretched to him, right in front of Dean’s face.

Dean looked up.

The man—not the store clerk, but a different one—was gazing upon him with concerned grimace on his face. Dean made a bullet-point list of his features: dark hair, kind of tall, and a bit broad in the shoulders. He cautiously craned his head to get a better look, refusing the man’s help as he slowly got to his feet.

And the _coat._ It looked familiar. Something out of one of the old detective movies he liked to watch late nights in whatever crappy motel he and Sammy were parked in. Black and white, with lots of cigarette smoke and low-tipped hats. The man even looked like one of the old-timey actors—serious, in charge, business-like—but with bright blue eyes that wouldn't have shown up in the picture. Dean realized that he was staring, but instead of frowning or looking away, the other man simply held his gaze, almost calmly, as if he were used to strangers eyeballing him.

Dean felt the tips of his ears burn, and finally looked away.

"You're hurt," the man suddenly said, reaching out his hand again. 

Dean flinched, instincts going haywire. "Get away from me.” He was old enough now to know that monsters weren't just hiding in the dark. "I'm armed."

"I don't wish to hurt you, Dean."

Oh, _that_ comforted him. "How do you know my name? Who are you?"

"Dean—"

Dean’s hand went to his jacket, slowly. Dad gave him a knife for his birthday, and it was tucked inside an inner pocket. "I'm telling you, I'm not just a pretty face. I can and will take you down if you try anything."

The next words stayed Dean’s hand: "I know where your brother is."

"Really?” At the bright relief in his tone, the man smiled, just slightly. Frowning, Dean forced himself to not get too excited. What if Sam was kidnapped by this weirdo? “What's he look like, then?"

"Dark brown floppy hair. Tall—“ Dean smiled, in spite of himself. “And very temperamental.”

Dean bit his lip, then slowly pulled out the picture and held it up. “Like this?”

The man bent down to look. “Just so,” he replied.

“Well, where did you last see him? Do you know where he is?”

"He's in a small cabin in Flagstaff. Unharmed, but he appears to be living off of various unhealthy substances."

Fear seized him. "Drugs?" Sammy was a smart kid, all Just Say No ever since Dean first tried a sip from Dad's beer bottle or a joint from another student. There was no way Sammy would get mixed up into something that bad.

"No. Soda. And chips," the man added.

Dean, to his surprise, let out a soft laugh. “Thank God. I mean, that’s not good, but—thank God. He’s all right.” _I didn’t fail, not completely. He’s alive. Sam’s alive._

"It's not your fault."

Startled, Dean looked right at him, caught in the blue-eyed gaze once again. "What isn't?"

The eyes were sorrowful, sympathetic. "That he ran away."

Dean frowned. "Sammy didn't run." Never mind that he couldn’t find some of Sam’s clothes or books that day, or some of the food Dean bought just yesterday. Or that Sam had—no. No.

The other man winced. "I shouldn't have told you."

"He wouldn't leave." The _me_ was implied.

"Dean, this isn't a fault of you—"

"It is." He could still hear Dad's voice in his head. "It is. All my fault. It's my job to look after him, protect him—"

"Sometimes, it doesn't matter what you do. These things happen, and you can't control everyone and everything."

Dean gave out a hollow little laugh. "You don't understand."

"I know what it's like to lose someone special. Not in the same way as you, but..." The man sighed. "I've made many mistakes, and I'm afraid they won't forgive me for my actions. Sometimes, I believe they're better off without me. But I'm selfish. I need them."

All of Dean’s doubts seemed to wash away. The man was so honest, so sincere, and appeared to understand him completely. Dean forgot the knife in his pocket and the picture he still clutched in his hand. The man was looking right in Dean’s direction—but not quite _at_ him, eyes warm. The back of Dean’s neck itched, and to his embarrassment, the redness of his ears spread to Dean’s cheeks, across his nose.

"They special?" Dean asked.

"Very much so." The man smiled. In that little moment, watching the wrinkles around the blue eyes crinkle, Dean wondered what it would be like, to be that special. Like Mom was to Dad, somehow, but...gentler, like seeking out a silver of sunlight in winter. Dad's love was a roaring fire, eating steadily away, consuming. That love was something Dean hoped to find one day, something that strong, but lately—it seemed scary, too.

"Very special," the man continued. "And the odd thing is—I seem special to them. Not to be presumptuous. But I feel—I feel—well." He caught Dean looking at him, then stopped. "Forgive me. I shouldn't trouble you with my problems."

“No, it’s fine, I—“ Dean coughed. “I’m sure they feel the same way.”

For some reason, the man looked very hard at Dean. Something like electricity zipped up his spine, and he felt every part of him being analyzed—his hair, his eyes, the freckles dotting his face. It was as if this man knew him, every part of him, and part of Dean wanted to cover himself up—but another wanted to know what would it be like, to have someone see into his soul, and embrace him. His heart skipped shyly.

“Dean,” the man finally spoke, but cut himself off again. “I must…I must go, but I enjoyed talking with you, even if for a short time. I hope you can reunite with your brother soon.”

"Yes, thank you," Dean said, honestly relieved. "Thank you. But wait, what's your name?"

The man evaded his answer. "You don't need to thank me."

"I do." Dean fumbled in his jacket pockets. "Take some cash, or something."

"No. I won't take anything from you, Dean." It seemed so urgent, so bizarre, so frantic, but Dean respected it, nodding. But he didn't like it, withholding something from this man. He had no problem with others, but this person was different, somehow. It felt like a tickle in the back of his throat, wanting to say something, but the words wouldn’t take shape properly. Besides, they didn’t make any sense. He felt—he felt as if…well, they were old souls.

They shook hands, and Dean felt a jolt up his arm. Looking up at the man with a short smile and a wave, Dean nodded again, and started to walk back home again, suddenly feeling refreshed.

But when he turned back on the road, wanting to catch a glimpse of the stranger again, he was gone.

Dean stood for a minute in the empty air, feeling like he missed something important, then, shrugging, went to call his father and find his little brother.


End file.
